Revised November 11, 2009
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Contents
The legal standing of charioteers
Despite the prominence of chariot-racing in the popular view of Roman life (and indeed in Roman life itself), the literature remains scanty. I know of only two essential books in English.[1] One is Alan Cameron’s Circus Factions, which, though it does not deal with the physical aspects of the sport, is very important for understanding the context. For how races were actually conducted, we must turn to J.H. Humphrey’s Roman Circuses: Arenas for Chariot Racing, a large, beautifully illustrated volume that marshals all the evidence available to the author in 1984. In the following essay, all references to numbered figures refer to Humphrey’s book.
Little of the evidence is in literary form, partly because most contemporary observers were moralists whose chief concern was the effect of the races on the spectators. The best actual narrative of a race is from the fifth-century poet Sidonius.[2] His gripping play-by-play commentary on a four-team race conveys wonderfully the atmosphere of the hippodrome — not the Circus Maximus, but a stadium near the court, probably at Ravenna. He is also informative about the posture of the charioteers, the way teams cooperated, and the rules of fair play, in particular that it was legal to collide with or entangle another chariot. His description of a wreck resulting from such a maneuver is gruesome, suggesting a great many limbs broken if not actually twisted in the spokes as he describes. The sport was undoubtedly harder on horses than on men.
Inevitably, better representations in the form of mosaics, reliefs, lamps, and other decorative art survive from the late Roman period than from the republic and early empire. The following discussion should be considered relevant chiefly to racing in the Circus Maximus during the fourth and fifth centuries.
It is unfortunate that the popular idea of the racing chariot has derived from the one driven by Ben Hur. There would have been no more reason to enter such a heavy, elaborately decorated vehicle in a race than to put a ’55 Oldsmobile in a road rally.
Surviving figurines and other representations show that the typical racing chariot was more like a basket on wheels. The driver stood on webbing that gave him a good, springy foothold. He is sometimes shown (as in fig. 119) leaning back on the reins wrapped around his waist as he plants his feet on the front apron. This was a piece of leather, canvas, or basketwork stretched on a hoop frame (best shown in fig. 114), designed to catch the sand flung up by the yoke horses. The driver could also brace a knee against the apron or hoop as he leaned forward (fig. 116).
Even allowing for the artists’ need to compress space, it is striking how close the drivers are to the horses. Sidonius speaks of them leaning almost prone over the pole to lash at the horses’ withers with their short whips, leaving the rumps and backs unscathed.
We can certainly dismiss as fiction, or even movie blooper, the idea of whirling blades extended from the hubs to chew up the opponents’ spokes. As anyone who has experimented with sticks and bicycles knows, both chariots would be involved in calamity the instant any projection, rotating or not, came between the spokes of an opponent’s wheel.
Some ancient circus scenes show figures on foot inside the arena, and in many cases these appear to be boys or men carrying either a jug or a dish in one hand, and often something in the other, perhaps a whisk or aspergillum. Humphrey (pp. 198, 276) rightly rejects the notion that these sparsores (sprinklers) are watering the track. He thinks it “conceivable” that they are lubricating the wheels of passing chariots (I don’t), but he believes instead that they are splashing the nostrils or faces of the horses.
To what purpose? It is hard to for us to imagine that an effort was being made to cool the animals. A few drops of water or even the entire contents of a flask are not going to make any difference to a sweating horse. But of course the Romans may have thought otherwise. Perhaps they believed that sprinkling the nostrils in particular gave the horse some relief, just as slitting the nostrils was believed to ease breathing in those days when horses were inefficiently harnessed around the windpipe.[3] St. Basil says that water was poured into the mouths of the panting horses on the track. Surely he misinterprets what was going on — not surprisingly in an age that could debate whether liquids were taken into the body by the trachea or the esophagus.[4]
It may be that the effect of the water (if that’s all it was) must be sought more in the magical than in the physical sphere. Magic was a large part of the culture of chariot racing, even into Christian times. Surviving leaden curse tablets show how evil forces were invoked against charioteers, who themselves might become adept in the black arts. Other charms, including aspersion, were used to protect. In his Life of Hilarion, Jerome tells the following story:
Now the rival of [the charioteer] Italicus had in his pay a magician to incite his horses by certain demoniacal incantations, and keep back those of his opponent. Italicus therefore came to the blessed Hilarion and besought his aid not so much for the injury of his adversary as for protection for himself.... At the request therefore of the brethren who were present he ordered an earthenware cup out of which he was wont to drink to be filled with water and given to Italicus. The latter took it and sprinkled it over his stable and horses, his charioteers and his chariot, and the barriers of the course.
The crowd was in a marvellous state of excitement, for the enemy in derision had published the news of what was going to be done, and the backers of Italicus were in high spirits at the victory which they promised themselves. The signal is given; the one team flies towards the goal, the other sticks fast: the wheels are glowing hot beneath the chariot of the one, while the other scarce catches a glimpse of their opponents’ backs as they flit past. The shouts of the crowd swell to a roar, and the heathens themselves with one voice declare Marnas is conquered by Christ. After this the opponents in their rage demanded that Hilarion as a Christian magician should be dragged to execution. This decisive victory and several others which followed in successive games of the circus caused many to turn to the faith.
The anecdote suggests that even prophylactic aspersions were considered unlawful, so perhaps this passage argues against a purely magical interpretation of the ritual sprinkling in the circus. But whatever the sparsores were doing, it must have been considered a benefit outweighing possible distraction of the horses and the danger to both sparsores and chariots (fig. 120, the Gerona mosaic, shows a trace horse rearing at a sparsor).
Sprinkling was surely restricted to friendly teams; interference with an opponent would not have been tolerated. One wonders if the fight shown in the Silin mosaic (fig. 107), if it is indeed part of the race scene, has broken out because of a breach of this rule.[5]
The sparsores must have displayed considerable agility and bravery in their role, which could involve dashing across several lanes of traffic and back again. Several mosaics and sarcophagus reliefs show unhelmeted figures in desperate situations under the hooves of onrushing horses (e.g. figs. 97-100, 102, 103). No doubt the sparsores’ exhibitions of skill and occasional catastrophes were part of the fun of a day at the races, but the absence of literary references suggests that they were not seen as an important part of the race itself. A modern analogy may be found in rodeo clowns, who are acting (in a different way) for the safety of the competitors, putting themselves at risk and at the same time varying the entertainment.
The sparsores are not the only mysterious figures commonly portrayed in circus scenes. We frequently see one or more figures on horseback. There is a particularly striking example in fig. 80, the Campana plaque in the British Museum, where a horseman dressed like a charioteer disappears behind the turning post. In most other representations these riders lack the helmet and padded vest. Often they raise a hand, palm up, in what is taken as exhortation; the link has therefore been made between the riders and the hortatores or iubilatores mentioned as faction attendants in inscriptions.[6]
I am aware of only one analogue to the use of outriders in a race, and that is in the event known as the chuckwagon races, most famously performed at the Calgary Stampede. In a heat, each of four wagons pulled by four horses in tandem is accompanied by four outriders. The aim is to get the whole outfit over the line quickly, with time penalties being awarded for outriders who arrive too far behind their wagon or not at all. We have no evidence of anything like this in the chariot races. We never hear, for example, of a charioteer failing to win on account of an accident to an outrider.
Since the artistic representations invariably show only a sampling of the many figures on the course, it is not clear how many outriders were present. There are always fewer riders than chariots, except on some sarcophagi where each chariot has an accompanying rider for compositional reasons. If the riders belonged to the factions, probably there were four of them in all.[7]
As with the sparsores, we have no literary information about the function of the outriders or any effect they might have had on the result. The lack of such evidence speaks against their role being any greater than that of coaches on the sidelines in any modern sport. Presumably they had some system to coordinate the teams of a faction in setting the pace, blocking, and whatever else was necessary to bring about a win by one of them.[8] But only the winning charioteer was awarded a prize.
As for their whipping or otherwise encouraging the team horses, the art does occasionally suggest this possibility if we keep in mind the impracticality of portraying yet another horse side by side with the team. In the Silin mosaic, the rider in the race scene is just in front of a team and has an arm stretched back; the perspective is awkward, and it is difficult to say if he is meant to be touching the horses with his whip, or simply gesturing to the driver. But we also see riders looking forward while galloping in front of a team (fig. 78), standing near the second turn looking back (Piazza Armerina mosaic, figs. 112 and 116), and even moving in the opposite direction (figs. 65 and 121). The overall impression is that they had no obligation to keep up with a particular chariot or chariots, but might wait at critical points or even gallop back to pick up their teams on the next lap.
Sidonius vividly describes teamwork among two pairs of chariots but makes no mention of any other horses on the track. The contestant who gets into that spectacular smash-up risks his chariot only because, in the dust and confusion, he is not aware that his partner has pulled out of the race. This error surely would have been prevented by an outrider whose role was to coach the drivers. However, Sidonius is describing a small race with amateur charioteers.
It is just possible that the outriders are referees rather than competitors. Certainly mounted officials could play a useful role in watching for fouls and waving offenders off the track, or by slowing down traffic around a wreck. However, I think the prominence the figures are given in circus scenes argues against this interpretation. Consider the vignette on the Campana plaque, where the rider in charioteer’s garb is galloping dramatically out of view. You could argue that he is a referee wearing standard safety gear, but it seems most unlikely that an artist would conceive this startling three-dimensional effect just to show the back of an ump.
The professional careers of famous drivers are well documented, chiefly on their monuments.[9] Less is understood about their social and legal standing. As entertainers they were of course infames, low-caste; some of them may have been slaves, and in any case they were bound to their profession, like most Late Romans. At the same time, they were celebrities, pictured on billboards all over the city,[10] and they mixed freely with the more raffish aristocrats.
It is clear from the surviving histories and laws that charioteers were of special concern to the authorities. For instance, the shortage of charioteers and good horses led to regulation of their movements.[11]
On the other hand, their popularity gave them a certain immunity. In 390 it was rioting over the arrest of a popular driver on a morals charge that led ultimately to the massacre of 7,000 Thessalonicans (young men from every family, rounded up inside the local stadium, in a chillingly modern scene). The incident had tremendous consequences: for the first time an emperor humbled himself before a bishop in penance for an official act. We can be sure that succeeding rulers did their best to avoid prosecuting charioteers.
The special treatment expected by charioteers would seem to date back to at least 381, when it was decreed: “Upon those men who perform compulsory public service as charioteers...no punishment shall be inflicted except their services at the games in the Circus.”[12] The text as it stands suggests that they were already in a sort of penal servitude and were therefore exempt from further punishment.
However, it beggars belief that any class of people, let alone underworld figures, should be given open license to rob, rape, and kill. An editor has therefore suggested an emendation (propter for praeter) that would make the law read: “no punishment shall be inflicted on account of their services.” As public figures with many enemies, charioteers were no doubt often exposed to frivolous charges arising from their behavior in the circus and among the factions. Perhaps the intention was to grant them immunity from this sort of thing. More narrowly, perhaps it was to give them liberty to commit mayhem on on the track, much as modern hockey players are allowed to perform assaults on the ice that would normally land them in jail.
Two surviving laws seem to have been prompted by cases of which we know nothing. A decree of 403 forbids breadmakers to escape their profession by marrying persons of the stage or charioteers, even with the best wishes of the bakers’ guild.[13] Did some handsome Blue or Green walk into a bakery and carry off their best kneader, to the applause of the rest of the shop? An even more intriguing law of 389 seems aimed at a charioteer who has got away with killing someone on the pretext that the dead man was a magician (and therefore a dangerous criminal, even a traitor). Any person suspected of magical practices, thunders the Code, must be turned over to the authorities immediately, even by a charioteer — especially by a charioteer, who otherwise might be suspected of ridding himself of a rival magician, or of silencing a partner in crime before the man could babble out names, torture being inevitable in such cases.[14]
Alan Cameron has shown that the Red and White colors continued to exist into the Byzantine period, despite the predominance from an early time of the Blue and Green factions. He also shows that the minor colors were always partnered with the major, usually Red with Green and White with Blue. Nothing suggests the existence of separate Red and White stables in the city of Rome. Although they seem to have had their own fans and cheering sections, outside the circus (and during acclamations within it?) their partisans would associate themselves with the Blues or Greens.
It does not seem that the Whites and Reds were a second division of less skilled and experienced teams that were expected to run in the rear; too many victories for them are recorded, and there is at least one known instance of a great driver moving from a major to a minor color.
What then was the role of the minor colors in a race? In the case of a field of four, as Sidonius shows, paired chariots would cooperate but anyone might expect to win. In larger races the arrangement is necessarily more complicated. Take the race of twelve teams, three from each color. Two of these must be considered second and third string, and their primary job is to work for the victory of the first team. Is there a similar commonality of interest between partner colors?
It is sheer guesswork, but I think that the White and Red colors, though fielded by the Blue and Green factions, must have regarded themselves as independents in at least the bigger races. Even if cooperation had been desirable, coordination between two sides of three chariots could hardly have gone beyond not making allies primary targets for the sort of attack described by Sidonius.
[1] A good general view is given by H.A. Harris in his Sport in Greece and Rome. An important symposium recently published as Le cirque romain et son image is reviewed in French here.
[2] Poem 23, lines 307-427: “perhaps the liveliest and most successful passage,” says Alan Cameron, “in the whole of Sidonius’ dreary oeuvre.”
[3] Arthur Cotterell, Chariot, pp. 56, 58.
[4] Humphrey p. 198; Basil Letter 222; Macrobius Saturnalia 7.15.
[5] The figure standing by the starting line in this scene, by the way, is not a sparsor. He faces the judging stand and holds what appear to be two ribbons of white cloth — perhaps “silks” like those Sidonius (23.424) describes as a special prize, something like the bull’s ear to a matador. Or perhaps he is relaying the judges’ decision to other heralds such as the one in the Barcelona mosaic (fig, 119), who is skipping about at what Humphrey (p. 237) takes to be the starting end of the circus and waving a green cloth as he looks toward the finish line and shouts the name of one of the winning horses. Humphrey does not commit himself as to the colors of the three cloths in the man’s other hand, and it is difficult to say from the photograph at the top of this page whether they are really blue, white, and red, but the man certainly is signalling a victory.
[6] See D.S. Potter et al., Life, Death, and Entertainment in the Roman Empire, pp. 293-94. It is also possible that the hortatores or iubilatores, or both, were attendants posted in the stands to organize cheers and formal acclamations (chants). On the latter, see Cameron’s Circus Factions and G.S. Aldrete, Gestures and Acclamations in Ancient Rome.
[7] The Silin mosaic (fig. 107) may suggest a greater proportion of outriders, since it shows three riders for the four chariots running on the divided part of the track. However, I believe the last stretch of the track, starting with the two standing figures identified by Humphrey (p. 213) as contending sparsores, is a separate scene that recognizes other kinds of contests (probably in the nature of half-time shows), just as the opposite panel is a separate scene showing the race winner with his palm leaf. The man with sword and shield striding from the direction of the starting gates is certainly not part of the chariot race, and the same is likely true of the nearby riders, who may represent ordinary horse-racing. The second rider, in particular, seems very intent on catching up with the first, and is paying no attention to anything behind him. If the struggling figures are sparsores as Humphrey says, they form a transition between the main event and the sideshows. But I wonder if they could be actual wrestlers, or possibly mimes.
[8] Harris (p. 195) describes how this works in modern sports.
[9] See Alan Cameron’s Porphyrius the Charioteer and Potter et al., pp. 296-99.
[10] Codex Theodosianus 15.7.12, a law of 394 CE, regulates where such images may be shown; it is considered sacrilege to display them alongside portraits of the emperors.
[11] C.Th. 15.5.3.
[12] C.Th. 15.7.7, Pharr’s translation.
[13] C.Th. 14.3.21.
[14] C.Th. 9.16.11.
